


as good as a mile

by twinfinite



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, I wrote this for myself, Pre-Canon, Running, Sibling Bonding, Slice of Life, but you can read it too, in between season 4 and 5, past track star fiona
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:20:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinfinite/pseuds/twinfinite
Summary: Nine times the Gallagher siblings ran just for the hell of it, and one time they turned it into a scam.
Relationships: Fiona Gallagher & Ian Gallagher, Frank Gallagher/Monica Gallagher, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher/Tami Tamietti
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	1. Fiona

**Author's Note:**

> I find Fiona Gallagher so relatable because I, too, am a former distance runner. We even ran the same event in high school. 
> 
> I just had a lot of feelings about the oldest Gallagher siblings all being hobby joggers at various points in canon, so here they are.

_ 1600 meters, 5:23:21 _

Fiona's track coach is a lanky, 50-something trigonometry teacher called Mr. Jefferson, an ex-marathon runner with a massive chip on his shoulder. Most of her teammates despise him, but that’s mostly because he has no sense of humor to speak of and he regularly makes them run 800 meter repeats until they’re left heaving. For her part, Fiona recognizes that he's mostly harmless. He’s never creepy or outright cruel. If anything, she’d be more shocked if he had managed to keep an upbeat attitude after multiple decades of teaching the difference between sine and cosine to apathetic teenagers. 

And besides, she genuinely likes to run. She’s good at it in the same way Lip is good at science; she breezes by her teammates in workouts like it’s nothing. Unlike Lip, Fiona’s grades have never had people speaking in awestruck, confident tones about how she’s going places, but today Mr. Jefferson turns to her and says, “if you push hard in the last lap you’re going to the State Qualifiers next week” and she wonders if it’s a little bit what that feels like. 

He gives her this information only moments before the gun fires at the start of her high school's first home meet of the season. When addressing the whole team, he had declared that being on their own turf would give them an advantage, but only Fiona is held back afterwards for extra words of encouragement. She knows he’s not telling her this out of the kindness of his heart, because he doesn’t play favorites. He probably doesn’t even like any of them. He’s just passing along a message because he genuinely believes she’s going to be able to do it.

The recognition is at first so foreign that it wraps a painful jolt of nerves down into the pit of her stomach. However, by the time Fiona has warmed up, stripped down into her well worn uniform, and made her way towards the start line, she finds that the sensation has been translated into a pulse of adrenaline. 

“The 1600 meter race starts in five minutes, ladies!” calls some parent who has been tasked with wrangling the athletes for the afternoon. 

Feeling wired and ansty, Fiona turns to jog down the grass besides the track while she waits for the call to line up. To her surprise, she hears her name called from the bleachers. Startled, she swivels around to find Lip and Ian waving frantically to get her attention. She hadn’t honestly expected Lip to be interested in watching her race; he was never subtle with his opinion that watching people run around in circles for sport was ridiculous and unappealing. Ian was a wildcard as always, but it was usually a good bet that he would take Lip’s side. 

And yet, here they are. Not only that, but they have Carl and Debbie in tow. The sight of all of her siblings beaming back at her leaves Fiona’s head swirling with emotions that she can’t quite sort through on top of her current tension. She’s grateful, of course, but she is also painfully aware that Lip probably wouldn’t have picked up his younger siblings from elementary school and daycare to cart them all the way to the high school out of sheer selfless desire to turn this into an outing for the whole family. More likely, it means that her mother and father are still unavailable for whatever reason it is that none of them have heard from them in four days. 

Fiona waves back, ignoring the pang of disappointment. The joke is on her, after all, for thinking that either of her parents would remember how she specifically asked for this one afternoon off from parent duty. Apparently it’s too big an ask that they ever check the family calendar on the fridge, or pay attention when their oldest daughter reminds them of the date for the seventh time. 

Taking a shaky breath, Fiona forces out a smile and mouths a  _ thank you _ to Lip. Dazed, she runs back to the start line to join the thirteen other girls signed up for her race. She makes it back just in time to throw a big number three sticker on her uniform shorts. There’s something delightfully grounding in this action; suddenly she’s not Fiona Gallagher anymore. She’s just Number Three in the 1600, nice and simple. 

“Runners, on your mark!” bellows a race official. 

All of Fiona’s muscles tense in anticipation.

At last, a gunshot bursts, and Fiona shoots forward. Almost immediately, she takes an elbow directly to the gut from the girl to her left as they all scramble to establish early dominance. Her opponent, a blonde from some school Fiona has never heard of, has the absolute nerve to yelp as if Fiona was the one who had purposely slammed her torso into her arm in some play at throwing her off her game. She has a number one on her hip, so she’s the frontrunner to win this one. 

From that moment forward, Fiona runs on pure spite. She latches onto the blonde girl’s tail and makes sure to stay uncomfortably close to her heel. For the first two laps, she refuses to make a move, just rides the girl’s shoulder and bides her time. Others in the race fall behind, and soon it’s a showdown. 

“You’ve got this, Fi!” 

“Go, Fionaaa!” 

The other spectators are subdued compared to her siblings, and Fiona finds that each word helps give her just the willpower she needs to ignore the strain in her breathing and the heaviness of her feet. 

700 meters to go, and she trains her eyes on the blonde ponytail swishing in her periphery.

600 meters to go, and she’s not sure if she’ll have enough left to get the job done.

500 meters. Blonde girl is also starting to sound more and more labored, her strides less confident. Excellent. 

400 meters, and fuck it, Fiona really wants to go to States. She surges forward, sidestepping her newfound nemesis, and takes the lead. Blondie tries to regain her position, but Fiona is determined to give her some comeuppance. 

She’s rounding her way towards the final 100 meters when she hears Debbie, her innocent baby sister, shout “kick her ass!”. She’s most certainly mimicking this phrase from her older brothers, but hearing the childish bravado makes her wish she had the air in her lungs to spare for some laughter. As Blondie makes another play for the lead once again, Fiona begs her legs to find just a little more power. She can’t stomach the thought of letting Debbie down, especially when she’s probably going to get the whole family banned from attending any future track events. 

In the end, Fiona surges past the finish line a full three strides ahead of her nearest competitor. She shakily swerves to the side, her heart racing wildly, and sprawls out on the grass. Blondie is hunched over on the opposite side of the track; Fiona gives a smug wave when she catches her glaring. 

Coach Jefferson trots over and puts a cold hand on her sweaty, shuddering shoulder. 

“5:23. Your new season best,” he informs her. He’s not quite smiling, but he looks a fraction more friendly than he usually does. Fiona takes this as a sign that she’s going to be signed up for the State Qualifier. 

“Yo, Fiona!” Lip calls. “Nice job.” 

He’s casually leaning on the short fence that separates the spectators from the runners and wearing a tight smile. He’s clearly both pleased with her performance and extremely ready to get home and deal with the fact that they’re getting closer each day to filing a pair of missing person reports. 

With considerable effort, Fiona makes her way back onto her feet just in time to see Ian ushering Debbie and Carl over to join Lip. 

Normally, it would be expected that Fiona would stay for the duration of the meet in order to cheer on the rest of her teammates, but it's hard for Coach Jefferson to keep her any longer when he has four pairs of puppy dog eyes bearing down on him. 

"Just make sure to cool down," he says gruffly, attempting to avoid further eye contact.

Fiona nods gratefully, and she gathers her backpack and sweatpants as quickly as her shaking limbs will allow. Despite her aching muscles, she still manages to stride out of the stadium with an extra spring in her step, her siblings trailing behind her like a flock of ducklings. 

Her glowing confidence lasts as long as it takes for them all to pass through the threshold of their house and behold the telltale signs of a Frank Gallagher Ransaking. Couch cushions overturned, cabinets ajar, any and all money most likely gone.

"Fuck," Fiona breathes. She spends a moment frozen, just hoping that her last $20 remains untouched in its uninspired hiding place in her sock drawer. 

She takes a deep breath, scrambles upstairs, and quickly discovers that it hasn't. She sits in a sad pile of discarded socks for longer than she’s proud of as she musters up the resolve to treat the situation like the adult it so desperately needs. The tears in her eyes dry without having the chance to fall. She sucks in one more unsteady breath, runs a frantic hand through her hair, and swings herself up from the floor. 

She reconvenes with Lip and Ian in the kitchen. One of them has put Debbie and Carl in front of the TV, and some obnoxious cartoon blares in the background at just high enough volume to cover up their emergency family meeting. 

"Dad took all the cash?" Lip says. It's barely a question.

Fiona nods, forcing her expression into stony resignation as opposed to outright panic. 

"All we have left is cereal. Maybe two bowls," Ian points out, blank-faced and tragically correct. “And I think the milk is mostly water by now.” 

"I was gonna order us a pizza," is all Fiona manages to grate out in response. She had been looking forward to it all day, and she had wanted to surprise them all. 

A harsh silence passes between them as they ponder their options.

"I hear there's a, uh, discount at Costco today," Lip says at last, and the quirk of his brow immediately tells Fiona that he's referring to the five finger variety. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve been in this particular jam, but this one just feels different. Maybe it’s because Fiona’s stomach twists in hunger a little extra today, her last reserves long since spent on the final 100 meters of her race. Maybe it’s because she’d much rather hunt Frank down and pry her money out of his sweaty, drunken hands than turn a blind eye on her brothers’ descent into delinquency for once. 

“Lemme go put on a sweatshirt,” Ian says, gesturing to his current t-shirt. It’s an outdated hand-me down that barely fits as it is; it isn’t going to be conducive to hiding a box of mac and cheese in the waistband of his jeans. 

“Grab me one too, yeah? That gray one with the big pocket in the front,” Lip requests. 

“Just...watch each other’s back, okay?” Fiona sighs. “Don’t take more than you know you can get away with.” 

“Sure you don’t want me to smuggle you a celebratory sheet cake?” Lip teases. “I think I can pull off a cupcake at least.” 

Fiona smacks his arm, but she does smile a bit. 

“Don’t be a smartass,” she warns, as if that isn’t the most ridiculous thing to say to any twelve year old, let alone Lip Gallagher. “If I’m not back by the time you are, start dinner without me.”

“Where are you going?”

“The Alibi. If I had any fucking money left I’d bet it all that Dad’s there right now.” 

“What, you gonna go there and throttle him? He’s probably spent all of the money by now.”

Before Fiona has a chance to answer, Ian interrupts. 

“You coming?” he asks, waving the gray sweatshirt in the air expectantly. 

With that, they all file back out of the house again and part ways. Lip and Ian look ridiculously suspicious wearing such heavy clothing when it’s 75 degrees and sunny outside, but she trusts that they’ll pull it off somehow. 

It takes Fiona much longer than it should to arrive at the Alibi, but that’s the price she has to pay for dragging Carl and Debbie along with her. No one looks twice at her upon entering, and it doesn’t take her long to spot Frank in his usual stool. He’s halfway to unconsciousness already, and it takes a hearty shove to get him to look in her direction. He’s got a split lip that Fiona guesses to be Monica’s work. 

“She’s gone,” Frank laments. He sounds so arrestingly torn up about it that the rant Fiona had prepared along the way just dries up in her throat. 

“Who, Mom?”

He flops his head back on the bar in a sloppy nod.

“She’s never gone forever,” Fiona says weakly, as if her mother’s presence is ever much help to begin with. 

“It’s for good,” Frank murmurs, near incomprehensible. 

And this is another scenario that’s all too familiar to Fiona, but maybe that’s why this feels so new. This is her limit. She’s had enough. 

She knows then and there that she’s not ever going to State Qualifiers. 

* * *

_ 1600 meters, 6:33:89 _

The subtle beep of a stopwatch is a poor substitute for the bracing roar of a blank, but Fiona doesn’t really need anything fancy. She’s just thankful for the miracle that was finding her old racing shoes in a musty box in the attic. In some ways, lacing them up makes this feel more legitimate than a crowd of spectating strangers ever could. 

Surging through the first hundred meters of her impromptu time trial is a rush once she gets past the first few strides; she corrects her initially stiff form and pushes forward with a power she hasn’t let loose in years. The power has been discarded just like her shoes, a relic of a time when running was something fun and meaningless rather than a survival instinct. She’s pleased to find that it hasn’t completely vanished. 

She rounds the finish line for the first time, blowing past Debbie as she shouts the 400 meter split. Struggling to place whether or not the number is a victory, she decides that the safest assumption is that it is not. Her brain seems to have gone off-line in favor of saving energy for her legs. She tries to cash in on some of that energy, pushing the pace up to what she hopes is closer to her glory day efforts. 

It’s a thrill to recapture the essence of that day, but somewhere around 700 meters in, Fiona feels slammed backwards by a thick fog. Her lungs feel endlessly gummed up by the dusty, smoggy air and the ghosts of cigarettes past. Her legs feel similar to how they did during the last ten meter push of the race of her life, which is deeply concerning when she considers the fact that she isn’t even halfway through. Distantly, Fiona knows that she’s slowing down, though the act of surviving her third lap doesn’t feel any easier in compensation for the seconds wasted. 

This was a stupid idea, she laments, panting and staggering towards the finish line and the promise of her final lap. Maybe I can try again on a cooler, shadier day, she bargains. 

“Only one lap left to go!” Debbie reminds her, as if that doesn’t feel like a goddamn marathon at this point. 

“Come  _ on _ , Fiona!” Debbie cries out. She’s been throwing out little platitudes here and there the whole time, but she’s kicking it into high gear now. Her screech is just short of painfully indignant, and it proves to Fiona that the vicious burnout isn’t all in her head. Her little sister can probably feel the negativity and exhaustion coming off of her in waves, and frankly that is just so very embarrassing.

Fiona chokes in the deepest breath that she can muster, wills her form to return to something less befitting of a zombie, and speeds up. She pushes through the last 400 meters with her head held high, and Debbie gives her a little high five as she throws herself over the finish line. 

The timer clicks, and Fiona tries to observe Debbie’s expression through the web of sweaty flyaway hair that is plastered to her forehead. 

“Under six?” she pants.

Debbie screws up her face sympathetically but doesn’t try to sugarcoat it. She’s already gotten too good at giving bad news. 

“No.” 

“Shit,” Fiona groans. 

Debbie just shrugs. “Maybe next time we can get someone to chase you. I bet you’d get under six if Carl was coming after you with a taser.”

Surprising even herself, Fiona has to laugh at this. She’s grateful that Debbie sounds so sure there will be a next time. In the grand scheme of things, the speed at which she can run a mile doesn’t matter in the slightest. But if she wants to get faster, all she has to do is keep trying, one foot in front of the other. Simple. 

* * *

_ 1.83 miles, 16:21:21 _

On what Fiona will look back on as The First Okay Day after the Winter of Never-Ending Shit, she and Ian finally go for a jog on the track. 

It’s also the first day that year that the snow recedes for the last time of the season; the sun returns and provides the final bit of damp warmth needed to banish the ice into slushy mud. It’s her first morning shift where Sean lets his hand linger on her shoulder just a little longer than he needs to as he praises her good work. She blames the combination of vitamin D and easy affection for the fact that she sends Ian a text message the moment she steps out of Patsy’s. There’s a cool but pleasant breeze carrying the slight scent of apple pie, and she doesn’t necessarily think there’s a chance that today will be different than all the others these last few months. But why not try?

Ian has just started texting them back again this week, and it’s been a collective relief. His messages are brief and vague, but that’s more or less a return to form. It might have been more alarming if he’d suddenly become forthcoming. He has yet to respond to her last two messages, but Fiona types out a third one anyway. 

_ im going for a run at the track soon. wanna join? _

Fiona makes it all the way home and is halfway through the process of digging her sneaker out of the massive, reeking shoe pile that obscures the floor of the front entrance when her phone buzzes. 

_ ok when _

Fiona feels her eyebrows rise in surprise. She hurries to text him back, feeling irrationally as though there is only a narrow window of time to respond before he changes his mind. 

_ umm like now? i was just putting my shoes on. i can meet u at mickey’s house in 15 if u want _

She stays frozen, unconvinced that she’s made a very compelling invitation but hopeful enough to give it a chance. Many moments later, she’s about to give up and go without him, but a second buzz comes through and makes her freeze in her tracks. 

_ ok  _

Fiona is floored. After weeks of  _ no  _ and  _ maybe later _ , this seems huge. Feeling weightless, she scrambles to locate her final shoe, throw her jacket on, and head out towards the Milkovich house. She's become begrudgingly well versed in this commute over the last few weeks, so she's easily able to time the trip out to a near perfect fifteen minutes.

When she arrives, she finds Ian waiting for her on the front stoop. She counts this as a blessing; she was fully expecting to go through the trouble of knocking and potentially encountering Svetlana, whose default intensity level always seems to be on par with a hungry lioness. 

Ian doesn't initially notice Fiona's arrival. His gaze is trained blankly in the direction of a cluster of broken beer bottles strewn about a distant corner of the yard. Before announcing herself, Fiona can’t help but use this time to assess him with an almost clinical eye. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but she believes he looks better than he did when she saw him last, a bit less than a week ago. She notices that his hair is washed and carefully combed back today, and he has a bit more color in his cheeks. When she finally calls out a friendly hello, she’s greeted with a salute-like wave and a little smile that feels genuine. 

When Ian pulls himself up from the steps, Fiona unabashedly swoops in for a hug. He willingly folds into it, returning her affection with a weak shoulder pat.

"Thanks for coming with me," Fiona says, untangling herself from the embrace. "I haven't worked out in forever. Kinda nervous I'm gonna suck."

"Yeah, me too," Ian replies, somewhat sheepish. 

They can’t quite meet each others’ eyes as they try to avoid the weight of the various reasons why they haven’t been keeping up with regular exercise. Fiona already lives with a constant reminder of her situation strapped to her ankle, chafing the bare skin above her sock. She’s learned to joke about it, but today she just wants to feel normal, as though they both have completely average reasons for getting out of shape. Crazy work schedules and laziness rather than booze, coke, bad decisions, and major depression. 

“I was thinking of just walking to the track, not running. I need to warm up into it, you know?” she says. 

“Sounds good,” Ian replies, and he follows her lead down the sidewalk . She thinks he seems relieved to be easing into it, but also a little wary. That, she suspects, is because he doesn’t want her to use the walk as time to interrogate him about his well-being. This strikes her as unfair, particularly considering how many weeks they’ve all spent consumed with worry. 

Still, it’s his lucky day. Fiona is not in an interrogating mood. She knows from recent experience that Ian will likely shut down any line of questioning deeper than a basic “how are you”, and she’s decided to let it go for today. Birds are chirping in the budding trees, it’s warm enough that she’s contemplating taking her sweater off, and she’s content just to be walking beside her little brother. Even if they don’t say a word, she’s happy they’ve both made it out of the house. 

A year ago, or even just months ago, this much silence between them would have been awkward. Uncomfortable. But now the rules have changed, and Fiona spends the short trip to the public track trying to decide where they’ve landed. She can’t help but miss the enthusiastic, talkative version of her brother as they plod along in tense silence, though she quickly reminds herself that there’s some unignorable chance that she shouldn’t view his unusual energy in a positive light. 

By the time Fiona half-convinces herself that the silence is peaceful, not unpleasant, they’ve already reached the gate leading up to the high school stadium. She bites down on the impulse to comment about Ian should consider enrolling again as they make their way towards the track.

“How far do you want to go?” Fiona asks, a question that roughly translates to “how much are you up to?” with extra effort not to sound pitying. 

Ian shrugs a shoulder noncommittally. “Up to you.”

“How about we start with a mile and go from there? I think that’s the most I’ve run since…”

She trails off, and Ian gives her a curt nod indicating that there’s no need they get into any of that. 

“After you,” he prompts. She doubts that he really means it as a courtesy. It’s hard to get started today; the track looks vast, just so much larger than she ever remembered it being. 

She starts anyway, and Ian falls in step next to her. Immediately, Fiona is struck with just how much heaviness she’s been carrying, how the weeks of tension and confinement feel like they’re hanging onto her bones. Everything in her body feels out of alignment in a way that simply doesn’t resolve itself after the first hundred, two hundred, three hundred meters. 

By the time they finish just one lap, Fiona is already panting with the effort. Ian doesn’t seem to be faring any better. Fiona can hear his breath coming in weak bursts from just over her right shoulder, and it startles her to realize that she’s actually going to leave him behind if she isn’t careful. She slows her pace slightly, and while this does succeed in putting her back in step with her brother, it does little to alleviate the discomfort. Her body simply does not want to be in this much forward motion.

They make it through three quarters of a mile before either of them speaks, too occupied with the effort of maintaining a pace that isn’t embarrassing. 

“This… fucking sucks,” Ian heaves. There’s not too much emotion behind the statement; it’s just a fact he’s pointing out. There’s maybe some frustration hidden underneath the casual tone, but Fiona tries to lean into the ridiculous nature of their pitiful endeavour rather than dwell on that aspect of this outing. 

“So much for us... being the fast ones in the family. I think Lip probably could outrun us.”

“ _ Liam _ would outrun us,” Ian returns.

Fiona snorts a breathless laugh, caught off guard. She can’t remember the last time she’s heard a joke out of him, and she’s filled with a warm relief that cuts through the lethargy. She catches his pleased smile out of the corner of her eye and hopes that he’s feeling the same way.

“You’re not wrong,” she says, as they stumble their way through the end of a mile. “Do you want to keep going or call it a day?”

“I can do more,” he answers. There’s a determination in his voice that cuts through the obvious fatigue and acts as further proof he’s steadily coming back to himself. Fiona herself would have been completely fine stopping the run short; it already served its purpose as a quick attempt at dusting off the cobwebs. But Ian must feel the need to prove something, whether to her or himself Fiona isn’t sure. 

And so, they continue around the next bend. Fiona struggles to fall into any sense of rhythm, and she’s once again struck by how everything just feels different now. She feels older yet somehow even less sure of anything. How far should she run today? How much should she push Ian to talk to her? How much time left until the curfew on her anklet? 

In some ways, all the thoughts buzzing around her head provide decent distraction from their slog of a run. Ian has pushed the pace just a little bit in this most recent lap, but it seems to have been an error. He doesn’t say anything, but Fiona knows him well enough to see that he’s struggling to keep going, too stubborn for his own good. She makes the executive decision to cut them off, halting her pace to a walk before they have the chance to reach the finish line one last time. The effort isn’t worth it. Not when today is just about spending time together.

“Okay, that’s all I’ve got in me,” she lies. 

Ian stutters to a halt alongside her, unsteady. He looks stuck between defeated and appreciative. 

“You sure?” he asks, looking toward the finish line so close in reach. 

“Absolutely.” To leave no room for doubt, Fiona sits down on the overgrown grass on the inside of the track with a dramatic flourish, her intention being to have a moment of shared rest before they head back home. She instantly regrets this, however, when she realizes that she’s essentially sat down in a mud puddle.

“Shit!” she screeches, the cold muck quickly seeping into her shorts. “Fuck!” 

As she scrambles to get off of the slippery ground, she can hear Ian laughing at her. Despite the laughter being at her own expense, it’s the best thing she’s heard all day. She’s still his older sister, though, so the only appropriate response is to throw a handful of mud at him in retaliation.

“See how you like it, huh?” she teases as it hits his bare arm with a gratifying splat. 

\--

When they make it back to the Milkovich house, the light is fading fast and they’re both covered in a fair layer of mud. Fiona is pleased to determine that their silent march across the neighborhood isn’t awkward at all. 

Mickey has taken Ian’s spot out on the front stoop. The smoke of a joint curls in the damp air around them, and Fiona imagines that it must be pretty powerful stuff judging from the fact that Mickey looks almost relaxed for once. 

“Thought you were going for a run, not mud wrestling,” he comments. 

Ian doesn’t bother to respond. Instead, he thrusts out a hand expectantly, and Mickey complies by passing him a hit. 

“Jesus, you smell like the homeless dog behind the Alibi.”

Unashamed, Ian leans in to press a dirty, sweaty kiss on Mickey’s forehead. Mickey half-heartedly feigns an attempt to keep him away, but Ian easily manages to leave a grimy imprint on the side of his face. 

As Fiona watches this unfold, she’s struck by the fact that this is the first time she’s truly seen Ian be a boyfriend. Mickey hadn’t really felt like her brother’s boyfriend in the last few weeks so much as his viciously protective caretaker. Now, it’s almost jarring to see them just being together. 

She’d suspected Ian was gay since he was eleven, when she had stumbled upon a well-loved copy of Men’s Health folded under the mattress of his bed. She’d been absolutely sure he was gay since she’d seen him with Mandy. She hadn’t spent an entire summer being Justin Miller’s beard just to come out on the other end oblivious of the signs. Fiona had them pegged with just one look at the smug, knowing little grin that Ian and Mandy shared every time she had tried to lay down the laws about teenage intimacy in her house. 

Now, it’s nice to see Ian get to have these moments, she thinks. She could do without the constant stream of Milkovich relationships that she’s had to put up with in these last few years, but she’s happy enough. And she has to give credit where it’s due- Mickey and Mandy Skankovich of all people played an undeniable role in keeping Ian going in the thick of it. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Ian says, passing the joint back to Mickey. “Bye, Fiona. Thanks for the invite.”

“Anytime!” Fiona says with a wave. 

She watches him disappear into the light of the house, fully expecting Mickey to follow. But before she can turn to leave, Mickey speaks up.

“He’s going back to work at the club next week,” he informs her. His voice betrays very little of his feelings on the matter, but Fiona’s been getting enough Ian updates from him recently to know that he absolutely hates the idea. 

“You try to talk him out of it?” 

“What do you think? I’ve been trying to talk him out of it this whole goddamn time.”

Fiona sighs. “I’ll talk to him about it. Lip, too, whenever he’s home next. Maybe if we can get him to see someone before he starts working again-”

“He’s doing better now, though,” Mickey interrupts. He stabs the joint out on a rickety porch step, as if to punctuate his point. “Gettin’ better every day.”

Fiona thinks of Ian’s determination. The joking, the laughing. She wants to join Mickey in believing that the worst is over, even though she thinks that’s naive at best. 

“Just keep an eye on him, okay?” she requests. 

Mickey shoots her a look that screams  _ what exactly do you think I’ve been doing here?  _ But he refrains from any sarcastic comments. Fiona wants to say more, but Mickey picks himself off the stairs and starts retreating before she has the opportunity to string together the right words. 

“Gotta go,” he says, waving vaguely. 

Fiona waves back, and then she makes her way toward home. Even though it’s been mere minutes since she last saw him, Fiona sends Ian another message.

_ thanks again for coming with me! how about we go again on saturday? :) _

Hours later, her phone vibrates.

_ sure _


	2. Ian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next set of vignettes, set pre-series, season 8, and season 10. 
> 
> I had a rough time writing during the later era in the series because...yikes. Let me know if I did it justice. These are a couple of moments of bonding I wanted to see.

_ 872 meters, 3:39:38 _

Ian decides that he hates his 6th grade math teacher, Mrs. Davis, before the bell rings to end their first class together. She seems nice enough on the outside, with her warm smile and trendy glasses. But something doesn’t sit right about the way she looks down at him during roll call, pausing for a dramatic moment after calling his name.

“Gallagher,” she repeats. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Phillip Gallagher, would you?” 

“Lip,” Ian pointedly corrects. 

The way she tuts judgingly at the nickname makes Ian suspect that Lip had spent a great deal of his tenure as her student correcting her on this same point. She's probably one of those adults who decides they know better than kids about their own damn name, and that's one hell of a red flag.

"Your brother is the only student I've ever had who scored a 100% on today's pre-test," she says, turning to gather a thick stack of test packets off of her desk.

Groans and sighs fill the air as she starts distributing the test books and accompanying bubble sheets, but she pretends as though she doesn't hear the dismay. "This test won't impact your final class grade, but you all need to try your best. The school board requires that we show you’ve improved from the beginning of the year to the end, so you aren't expected to know everything right now. You have 40 minutes. Keep your eyes on your own papers or I’ll make you retake it in detention."

Ian flips open to the first page of the test and feels a burst of hopelessness the moment he glances at the first problem. Fifth grade had given him the vague idea of what middle school math looked like in theory. But this? He wasn't expecting so many letters instead of numbers. Math had made so little sense to him even when it was just basic multiplying and dividing, so this feels like a cruel joke. 

It would have been difficult enough to keep himself from thinking of Lip's math prowess without the additional assistance from his teacher, but now he's struggling to focus on the words and numbers on the page. As he stares blankly at a labelled diagram of a rectangle, his mind wanders to the question of how Lip could simply know this stuff without trying. He has to shake off the temptation to aimlessly fill in bubbles without even reading the questions; it takes all of his resolve to answer each with his best guess. He puts down an A whenever he has no idea. Because how is he supposed to innately know how to convert fractions into decimals? 

40 minutes pass. There are a lot of As. 

"Okay, time's up," his teacher drawls dispassionately. "Hand your bubble sheet to your neighbor for grading. Let's get this done quickly before the bell rings." 

The whole class seems to simultaneously shift in their seats uncomfortably, eying those around them with varying levels of distrust and animosity. Peer grading is among the most awful injustices that Ian can think of, and he has to live with a couple of chaotic nightmares for parents. Reluctantly, he hands his paper to the girl to his left. He remembers her from elementary school- Mikayla something or other. She’s always been nice enough to him, but that doesn’t mean he trusts her with knowing how badly he did on a test on what has historically been his worst subject. 

“Question 1...B,” Mrs. Davis begins. 

Ian flips Mikayla’s test over just in time to tune into her recitation. All of her bubbles are much more precise and neat than his, and he quickly notices that she’s actually done decently well on the surprise test. 70%. Passing. 

Mikayla hands Ian his paper back delicately, her eyes apologetic. She’s done him the favor of circling his score at the top of his bubble sheet in bold. 41%. She’s even put a little smiley face in the corner of the page, as if that would soften the blow. 

The score doesn’t mean anything, but even with his weak arithmetic skills Ian knows how large the divide is between him and his older brother. Mrs. Davis makes no effort to hide an amused smile when she catches sight of Ian’s grade; it’s as if she had made a bet with herself and was proved correct in her assessment. A wave of resentment kicks Ian so hard in the stomach that it aches.

The final bell of the day rings at last, and Ian stalks out of the class with his fists clenched tensely around the straps of his ancient, fraying backpack. It used to be Lip’s backpack, before Lip had stolen a newer one from some football player asshole who had left it lying unattended by the bleachers. Ian had appreciated the old backpack as a gift at the time, but now he can only see it for how shitty it is. There’s a cigarette burn by the handle, for fuck’s sake. 

It’s with this energy that Ian meets Lip by the back entrance, right where they’d agreed to reconvene after school so they could walk home together. Ian sees Lip before Lip has a chance to notice him; he’s too entranced in conversation with some dark-haired girl. She seems somewhere between charmed and annoyed with him. Ian can’t pretend to know the difference. He waits silently until Lip breaks off the conversation and turns to face him at last. 

“Hey! How’d it go today?” Lip greets him.

Ian gives a curt wave and a one-armed shrug, working hard to keep his expression steady. The last thing he wants to do is broadcast how upset he’s become over math class, even though he’ll definitely need Lip’s help eventually if he wants to improve his scores. Somehow knowing that just makes it a little worse. 

“Who was that?” Ian asks, less because he cares to know and more because he doesn’t want to talk about how much he didn’t enjoy his first day of middle school.

"Stella Mason," Lip answers. Ian can tell from the way he says her name that he's interested in her, and that realization makes his stomach twist in a way he doesn't want to think about. 

"What were you guys talking about?" Ian gives his best rendition of someone enticed by the concept of flirting with pretty girls. It seems to pass well enough, because Lip continues detailing his interaction with Stella as they begin the short walk home.

“We’re lab partners for the semester, so we’ll probably be hanging out after school to work on stuff. Hey, do you think Kev would sell me some weed with a friends and family discount? I told her I had a hookup.”

“Isn’t his rule that you gotta be fourteen or something?” 

Lip shrugs. “Close enough. I bet we’d have a lot more fun doing science homework if we were stoned.”

He keeps talking about Stella, but Ian stops listening entirely. His mind unintentionally wanders back to Mikayla’s pitiful little smiley face, and the burning feeling of anger grows steadily stronger. He’s hit with the powerful urge to smack Lip right in the mouth just to shut him up. Ian can even justify it to himself. Lip doesn’t understand how good he’s got it, with his unfair academic prowess, his stupid curly hair that girls actually seem to like, his ability to like girls with ease. He deserves a good whack.

But how would he begin to justify that to Fiona? He can imagine the look on her face if she caught wind of an unprovoked attack, and it isn’t pretty. She’d be furious, sure, but she’d also have that overwhelmed, tearful look underneath it all. 

So Ian unclenches his fist and interrupts Lip with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Race you back home!”

Lip trails off mid-sentence, mystified. He opens his mouth again, most likely to comment on how they’re too old for spontaneous racing, and probably have been for a while. 

Ian doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, he bolts. His mostly empty backpack flops uselessly about, but he ignores that minor inconvenience. The only thing that matters is whether or not he has an opponent. 

“The fuck, Ian?” Lip cries out, but he’s picking up speed so as not to be left behind.

“Come on, pussy!” Ian heckles over his shoulder. “Afraid you’re too slow?”

Lip still looks confused, but to Ian’s delight, he also looks a little pissed at the insult. He takes a couple of powerful strides to catch up to Ian, and then pushes past him. In response, Ian snaps forward and doubles his efforts to be the first one home. Lip is older, taller, and well practiced at sprinting away from trouble, so he keeps the upper hand for a good two blocks. 

Ian, however, has the power of repressed hostility on his side, as well as a natural endurance. As they turn the corner onto their street, he makes a rather unsportsmanlike move and jams himself into Lip harder than necessary, cutting him off as they both make their way around the sharp curve. This knocks Lip off balance, and gives Ian the chance to barrel forward without Lip on his shoulder. 

“Hey, watch it!” Lip yells, and the frustration in his voice provides Ian with such catharsis that he glides into their front yard with a smile on his face. He slaps the railing of the front porch to declare his victory, a memento of the rules he and Lip followed back when racing down the block was a more frequent passtime. 

Lip slows to a halt behind him, panting. 

“You’re such a dick,” he says. “You totally cheated.”

“Nah, you’re just slow,” Ian teases, which prompts Lip to lunge forward and throw him in a playful headlock. The two grapple; Ian steps on Lip’s foot in order to squirm out of his clutches, and they both nearly topple over in the struggle. They abandon their backpacks on the grass in order to wrestle unimpeded. As Ian succeeds in throwing Lip onto the grass, he’s completely forgotten about math, girls, and hand-me-downs, at least for the time being. 

  
  


_ 5 miles, 45:32:00 _

By the third time Carl’s 5:30 am bugle alarm blasts Ian right out of sleep, he realizes that he’s finally shed any scrap of skepticism he had left regarding his little brother’s military aspirations. He might have even felt vaguely guilty about doubting him, had it not been for the fact that he’d been so looking forward to sleeping in on his day off. What’s worse, he had also been in the middle of a peaceful dream about a warm beach. 

Carl shoots out of bed with vigor and disappears off to the bathroom; Ian furls into a blanket cocoon and wills himself to return to his bright, sandy dreamscape. This task would have been difficult enough without the constant punctuation of squeaky faucet sounds and Carl’s intermittent stomps. He can only hope that Carl plans on making everyone breakfast again, because fresh pancakes are the only thing that can possibly keep Ian from smothering him with a pillow the next time he hears that godforsaken trumpet. 

Carl finally retreats downstairs, but the bathroom sounds are merely replaced by pots and pans banging around. Ian is still determined not to give up on the concept of an extra hour or two of sleep, however, so he pulls out his headphones and blasts the most calming music he can find. By the time he begins to smell bacon, he’s managed to reach a disorienting half-sleep that features exactly no beaches.

The door creaks open again, and Carl pokes his head in. 

“I’m doing five miles after breakfast. You in?”

Ian’s first instinct is to say no, because it’s bad enough that he’s currently lying awake in the comfort of his own bed, much less outside sweating his ass off. But this is the first time that Carl has actively sought out Ian’s company; for the past three times they’ve run together, Ian has had to invite himself. This new development is somewhat flattering, and it shatters Ian’s resolve to spend the day doing as little activity as possible without someone getting overly concerned for his mental state. 

Ian untangles himself from his blanket and blinks up at Carl. “Depends. What are you making for breakfast?” He can’t help but leave Carl in some suspense. It’s his duty as an older brother to be difficult in retribution for the fucking bugle. 

“Bacon and scrambled eggs,” Carl answers, smirking just a little. He can probably tell that Ian isn’t capable of saying no. 

“Okay, fine,” Ian says. He pulls himself up and follows Carl downstairs to find a vat of scrambled eggs awaiting on the kitchen table. Lip is already sitting there with a steaming cup of coffee and a piling heap of food on his plate. 

“Isn’t it your day off?” he asks. 

“Cadet Corporal Carl asked me to go running with him,” Ian explains as he helps himself to some coffee to go with his daily pharmaceuticals. 

“Jesus, I’m getting flashbacks to high school. Whoever the military recruiter for the Southside is, they’re probably making a shitload of money for a brainwashing well done.” 

Ian glares at Lip and hopes that his look properly conveys the message  _ be supportive, asshole- at least this is better than juvie.  _ Lip is unmoved; he takes a self-satisfied crunch of bacon even as Carl flips him off. Ian, feeling petty, steals a piece of Lip’s bacon before turning to root around in the dryer for a clean running shirt. As he changes into appropriate athletic clothing, he’s painfully aware that putting his eagle tattoo on display isn’t doing anything to help combat Lip’s earlier remarks. 

Shockingly, Lip refrains from any further condemnation of the military for the rest of the time it takes him to get through his breakfast. The three brothers have an almost civilized meal together, mainly due to the fact they choose to sit in silence. Lip heads off to work while Ian and Carl scroll through their phones until it's finally Carl's designated time for working out. The entire Gallagher family has come to know the regimen well in the past few weeks, so Ian is very familiar with Carl’s rule about requiring at least a forty-five minute digestion period between breakfast and physical activity. 

By 7:00 am, Ian and Carl make their way onto the front porch to lace up their shoes. It’s overcast and disgustingly humid outside; Ian is sweating just from the strain of stretching out his calf muscles. 

“Same route as last time, right?” he asks Carl. 

Carl nods. Ian gives him a satisfied, semi-ironic salute, and they’re off. 

When they first ran together months ago, they’d defaulted to pushing the pace in some unspoken effort to one-up each other. Now, they easily settle into a rhythm that they both find relaxed and manageable. Ian has the advantage of long legs and experience, but Carl’s months of being screamed at to run faster and longer have made it so he can hold his own. 

They plod along without saying anything for the first mile, and then they hit a red light at a crosswalk. Carl takes the brief respite as an opportunity to open a conversation that Ian didn’t see coming.

"You think you’d have still joined the army if you hadn't, like, gone crazy?" he asks with such genuine curiosity that the indelicate phrasing doesn't even register.

Ian is silent, grasping for a legitimate answer. It's very difficult to reconcile 16 year old Ian's attitude towards enlisting with the version of himself who bailed after six weeks, let alone the version of himself that followed. Up until now, it hasn’t felt worth it to try untangling that mess.

The obvious first answer that comes to mind is a hard no. The last taste of army life he’d had was military prison, after all. Still, Ian isn’t sure why Carl is even asking. It’s not like he usually looks to his older siblings for validation in his life choices, but stranger things have happened. Lip has been enough of a buzzkill today, so there’s no need to pile on. 

“Who knows?” he flounders. “That was always the plan.” 

It’s not quite a lie, even though Ian knows with decent certainty that the military was never going to have been the great escape from the ghetto that he had previously envisioned. 

The light turns green, and they push forward. Carl doesn’t seem satisfied by Ian’s answer, but Ian hopes to avoid talking about his military crash and burn any further. Unconsciously, he picks up the pace. Carl falls back in step with him with some extra effort, and continues his line of questioning despite the increased strain in his breathing. 

“Why’d you leave, anyway?”

Ian scoffs. “Wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place, you know?”

“Yeah, but they didn’t even catch you for it until way after,” Carl points out. 

“They were gonna notice eventually. I wasn’t exactly staying under the radar when I hadn’t slept for three nights straight and kept doing stupid shit. CO was literally breathing down my neck.” 

Ian has never told anybody this detail before, but he supposes that if he was going to open up about it to anyone, he’s happy that it’s Carl. As if to prove this point, Carl just gives a non-judgemental grunt of understanding and lets the topic rest. 

Feeling fond, Ian gives Carl a friendly elbow to the side and says, “You’ll kick ass, though. Just don’t steal shit and you’ll be fine. Oh, and keep your elbows down when you run. You look like a t-rex right now.” 

Carl elbows Ian right back, but he does shake out his arms a block later. By the time they round the corner on their street, his form has highly improved. They speed up for the last fifty meter stretch, knowing full well that the first person upstairs will snag the first shower and potentially all of the remaining hot water. 

Ian lets Carl win. Just this once. 

  
  


_ 2.23 miles, 18:23:01 _

"That's fucking disgusting, man," Mickey says, eyeing Ian’s bare foot.

It’s a fair assessment. His big toe is crusted with dried blood and his other toenails are just barely hanging on for dear life. Gingerly, Ian replaces his stained sock with a fresh one. He tries to inch his battered foot back into his flimsy prison shoes without doing any further damage, but he’s pretty sure his pinky toenail is fully detached by now. 

“I’ll never get what you see in that distance running shit,” continues Mickey. 

His prison bunk has given him an unwilling front row seat to more than one session of running related triage, ranging from simple sore muscles to heinous chafing. Ian might have bothered to defend his exercise habits weeks ago, but he supposes that Mickey has seen too much at this point for any kind of pro-running propaganda to land. 

“It’s something to pass the time,” Ian feebly explains. “You learn to like it eventually, the more you do it.” 

Mickey glances at Ian’s reddened, crusty sock lying on the floor and pulls a face. 

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to enjoy getting busted up like that. It’s your body’s fucking cry for help.” 

“Not my fault that these shoes are like running on cardboard. You can barely granny-shuffle a mile without ripping your feet to shit.” 

Ian flips down to sit beside Mickey on his bunk, but he avoids eye contact, knowing that Mickey’s judgment is inevitable. 

“Uh-huh. Right,” Mickey says skeptically. “Well, next time you oughta do us both a favor and just call it quits before you come back and turn this place into a biohazard.”

He gestures to the sock to illustrate his point. 

Ian gives a short, self-conscious laugh and sweeps the offending piece of clothing out of sight with his foot. 

“I kinda needed something to kick my ass today,” he admits. “It felt great until the shoes came off, I swear.”

Mickey quizzically cocks an eyebrow but remains silent, challenging Ian to back up his claim. 

“I talked to Lip earlier. Apparently everyone’s throwing Debs a birthday party tomorrow. Can you believe that? I thought we all gave up on birthday shit after the thing with Liam. Not to mention how if we ever had a birthday party before that, it fucking crashed and burned. Usually because of Frank. Or Monica. Sometimes both of ‘em.”

Mickey seems somewhat placated by this admission, because he nods in understanding. He then shakes his head a little and gives an ironic snicker, as if there’s something ridiculous about the sheer idea of birthday celebrations.

“Fuck birthday parties anyway. I’d bet you everything in my commissary that Frank ruins this party, too.” 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better about missing it or something?” Ian replies, but a smile creeps onto his face despite his sour mood. “I’ll take you up on that bet, though. Frank’s smoked so much meth by now that he probably doesn’t even know what month it is. As long as no one gives him a heads up I think they’ll be fine.”

Mickey sticks out a hand. “You’re on, then.” 

Ian hesitates. “You have like, what, $10 in your account right now? You can keep your money. I’d rather see you come run with me on the track if you lose. Gotta convert you into a runner one of these days.”

“What is this, 6th grade PE? Come the fuck on,” Mickey argues. The mere thought of Ian’s terms seems to be so horrifying that he drops his hand. 

Ian shrugs impishly. “Take it or leave it.” 

“Okay then, what’s in it for me if I win?”

“I get to choose my terms, so you can choose yours.”

“Oh, how fucking generous. Okay.” Mickey pauses, genuinely contemplating. He seems to struggle, and Ian isn’t sure if it’s because they have such limited options or because he simply doesn’t have many wants at the moment. Finally, his eyes light up deviously.

“Alright. If I win, you gotta convince Lip to come up next weekend and bring me some fuckin’...biscotti or some shit from that stupid organic coffee shop that all the gentrifying yuppies love so much. The one over by the Alibi.”

Ian looks at Mickey blankly. “Why the hell would you want me to do that?”

“Because when he brings it I want you to dump it in the trash and tell him not to be a gentrifying yuppie. He’ll know what it means.”

It takes Ian a long time to run through his memories of Lip and Mickey’s limited interactions with one another before he finally has to admit that he has no idea what the connection is. With a sigh, he gives up.

“Christ, Mick. You have pretty much unlimited options here and you wanna make me bother Lip? How am I supposed to convince him to do something so random, anyway?”

“That’s on you. Have fun with it. Take it or leave it, right?”

Mickey throws him that little smirk of his that’s equal parts obnoxious and flirty. Ian’s still a little weak to it, but he swallows down a charmed smile and instead rolls his eyes. He extends his hand to seal the deal. This time, however, Mickey hesitates.

“Wait, hold up, what’s our definition of ruined here?” he asks. “I’m not about to make any kind of deal without locking down all the details.”

“I dunno, isn’t Frank just showing up enough to ruin things? The motherfucker opens his mouth once and you feel homicidal.”

“Fair enough.”

“Oh, and since we’re laying down the law right now, I’m gonna say right now that if I win, you have to run with me for no less than twenty minutes. Or two miles, I guess. Whichever one happens first.”

Mickey scrunches his face in distaste at the thought. “Frank fucking better show, or I’m gonna kick his ass the minute they let me outta here.”

“You should probably kick his ass no matter what happens. I wouldn’t stop you. So, we have a deal?”

“Deal.” 

With that, they shake on it.

\--

Two days later, Ian strides back into their cell after his latest phone conversation with smug glee. He finds Mickey lounging on his bunk, absently looking through one of his books. He glances up when he hears Ian enter, and it only takes one look at him to clearly pick up on what has likely happened. Ian speaks before he has a chance to call him out for the lack of subtlety. 

“That was without a doubt the most boring Gallagher party that’s ever happened. No one got shit-faced, or started a fist-fight in the alley, or laced the cake with bad weed- no one even cried! Debbie actually threatened to murder anyone who pulled any trashy shit in front of Franny. And you know the best part?”

Mickey crosses his arms impatiently, but humors Ian. “No appearance from your flea-ridden, fucked-up dad?” 

Ian beams. “I think Liam told Frank that they were doing free shots at some bar way across town, so he was beyond out of the picture.”

“Hey, you didn’t put Liam up to that, did you? That’s goin’ against the terms of our agreement.”

“Nah, Liam’s just turning out to be a scamming prodigy. I take no credit for that one. Come on, grab your shoes! Time to turn you into a runner.”

“We gotta do this right now? We didn’t say it had to happen the fucking second you put the phone down,” Mickey protests.

“You can put it off until next time we get the chance for yard time together, but the more you wait the harder I’ll go on you,” Ian says, folding his arms and tapping his foot dramatically. 

Mickey sighs with an equal amount of drama, but he tugs on his own pair of shoddy prison shoes and follows Ian to the dusty track in the yard. It’s an unseasonably cold day; the wind is biting and dry. It’s not the best running weather, Ian knows, but sometimes a touch of bracing weather makes for easy motivation to get a run done swiftly.

The track isn’t marked, but Ian leads them to a patch of dirt that he approximates as where a standard starting line would be. He’s been fairly convinced after months of running on this particular track that it’s a bit longer than the typical 400 meters, but he’s not going to confess that to Mickey. 

“At least eight laps, remember?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this shit over with already.”

Ian glances down at the cheap watch that Mickey had somehow finagled his way into obtaining as his birthday gift earlier in the year. 3:17 pm, he notes. While he’s doing this, Mickey has already taken off down the first curve. 

“What the…” Ian murmurs, before taking off after him. 

Ian catches up quickly and falls in step with Mickey, who has chosen a quick pace that’s much better suited to outrunning the police rather than casual exercise. Ian informs him of this fact, and predictably receives a middle finger. 

“This is boring as hell,” Mickey comments at the close of lap one. He’s already breathing hard, though, and he has that wild look about him that Ian recognizes as thinly veiled frustration. 

“We can slow it down, if you really need to,” Ian offers tauntingly. He vaguely wonders if he’s taking too much satisfaction at watching his boyfriend struggle through his admittedly tedious hobby, but he decides to lean into it. He knows Mickey can take a little ribbing. 

“Fuck you,” Mickey shoots back. He does, however, slow down a little bit. 

Together, they work through the first mile at a pace Ian actually finds pretty challenging. Despite the frosty weather, they’re both sweating. 

“Halfway there!” Ian announces with a truly nauseating amount of cheer. Moments later, Mickey responds by hacking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it mere inches from Ian’s left foot. 

“Feels like...I just swallowed fucking...blood. That normal?” he pants. 

“Yep! It’s just the dry air,” Ian keeps up with the jaunty tone. “You get used to that, too.”

“Jesus Christ…” 

Mickey spends the rest of lap five and six murmuring under his limited breath about the sheer masochism of it all, and Ian resists the urge to giggle like a twelve year old girl. 

“Just a half mile left!” he calls.

“It been twenty minutes yet?” Mickey asks hopefully. 

“Not even close,” Ian answers, without actually checking. He’s done this long enough to know they’re barely made it to fifteen. To him, it feels like it’s been no time at all; he’s genuinely enjoying himself. The combination of endorphins and quality time with Mickey have made time fly by, but he recognizes that it probably feels like it’s been an eternity to Mickey. He does remember what it feels like to be completely out of practice running, after all. 

“Are you- give me that.” Mickey makes a grab at Ian’s wrist, trying to snag a look at the watch to confirm. Ian dodges out of the way by speeding up. 

“Come and get it!” he teases. 

This works like a charm- Mickey gains newfound determination from having the objective to steal a look at Ian’s watch, and they plow through another lap in a game of cat and mouse. Their seventh crossing of the invisible finish line is punctuated by Mickey successfully grabbing Ian’s arm and noting that he has indeed not yet finished carrying out the terms of the bet. 

“Shit,” he grumbles between heavy breaths. 

“Last one, fast one,” Ian says almost automatically, recalling the phrase from the days when he would run with his ROTC group. Back then, it was a fun little maxim they would use to challenge themselves to finish strong. Mickey is not the least bit charmed by the resurfaced memory. He pulls a face and deliberately slows down. 

“Not tryin’ to impress anyone here,” he spits. He tries and fails to level out his breathing. 

“Oh, well that’s good, cuz I’m definitely not impressed,” Ian replies. “Race me?” 

And he takes off much like Mickey had when they’d first began. To his mild surprise, Mickey takes off after him, and they duel it out for the last 300 meters. It’s not exactly a fair fight, but Ian makes sure they finish the two mile stretch side by side. When it’s over, Mickey hunches over, grabbing at his knees while he gags out some desperate, congested coughs. 

Ian puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. He says “that was fun” at the same time Mickey says “that was the worst”.

Despite himself, Mickey gives a straggled laugh. “You’re fucking lucky I love your dumb ass. I’m never doing this shit again.” 

Ian feels a warmness in his core that has nothing to do with their sprint to the finish. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that Carl and Ian are both canonically bootlickers!

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter will be Ian!


End file.
